Uncannily Human
by WingedWhale
Summary: Lestrade has a secret. Unwilling to show his true self to the modern world, he embraces the life he's created as a DI at NSY. When tragedy strikes, he knows he's willing to risk everything to save Sherlock. But what will happen when Sherlock and Company discover their favorite Detective Inspector isn't quite human? Mystrade and Johnlock
1. Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade gulped down a swallow of cold coffee. While this particular cup was just shy of something akin to battery acid, the man welcomed the bitterly acrid taste on his tongue. The fact that enough brain cells were still in working order for him to register the sheer magnitude of the _ghastliness _of the drink told him he still had a bit of useful cognitive function left. He stared at the pile of papers on his desk, and the quickly scrawled notes he'd made in between the margins.

He breathed a harsh sigh and allowed himself to close his eyes. After a lingering moment he opened them, glaring at the files in open irritation when they remained a jumbled mess of documentation and not some sort of holy grail to a consulting detective's innocence.

He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Yet sleep was the very furthest thing from his mind. Sherlock Holmes had helped him in ways beyond measure in the past five years. And now it appeared it was finally time for him to step up and return the favor.

Unfortunately, he was very close to exhausting all his resources, and had yet to find the smoking gun that would clear Sherlock's name. Lestrade swallowed hard at that notion, a jolting sensation twisting his gut into a knot.

The truth was, he knew he possessed a means of helping the man. A means he'd vowed he'd _never_ use, for it was the very thing he feared the most. To even _think _of it was dangerous, in more ways than he would ever care to count. Lestrade was more than happy with the illusion he presented to the world. He enjoyed his life as a mortal human being.

A shudder ran down the DI's spine.

_Don't even go there, Lestrade._

He drained the rest of the god-awful coffee. It did nothing to settle the sudden tension in his stomach. He was so good at lying to the world. He was so good at pretending to be something other than what he truly was. None of them had any idea about his true nature, and he wanted more than anything to continue to keep it that way.

_You do anything, anything at all, to reveal your power and they'll know. They'll fucking see the proof and there won't be anything you can do to convince them they didn't. The people you count as your friends will turn on you, like you're some kind of rabid animal. They'll train guns on you and you'll let them because you know you don't have it in you to hurt them. Even in self-defence. Not Dimmock. Not Sally. Hell, not even Anderson. They'll call the government black-suits and they'll come and take you into 'custody'. Ha. 'Custody'. More like throw you into a cage at that Baskerville lab and conduct any and all experiments they care to imagine. _

He allowed himself to think that Sherlock and John would stand up for him. But even they would be no match for an army of shocked and frightened Metropolitan Police officers. To expect that the public at large and thus the police force would be anything else in the presence of his supernatural power, well that was just ridiculous.

And as great as his otherworldly abilities were, here on this pretty little piece of rock, he was nearly as human as those he existed to protect. He could suffer both physically and emotionally just as they could. In many ways even more so.

Yet despite the facts, he felt so _comfortable _as a human. While others of his kind would most assuredly tell him that was a pathetically foolish mistake to allow himself to make, . . . he knew with absolute and complete certainty that for him, at least, it could never be a mistake. Being close to humanity made Lestrade feel things. _Wondrous things,_ and it made him revel in this blue-green world that the humans called home. He walked among the people of England appearing to be one of them, lending aid in the form of a Detective Inspector. He shared in their little joys and day-to-day humor, commiserated and empathized with their lives' pain and failure. And while he'd once taken a more active role in protecting them, that was long in the past and now Lestrade Lestrade simply enjoyed being human.

He was driven out of his current line of thought when Donovan rushed into the room. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was uncharacteristically pale. She didn't immediately say anything. The shock, disbelief, and surprising presence of pity writ into her features made Lestrade's blood turn to ice.

"Sir . . . I . . ."

"Out with it, Donovan!" Lestrade barked.

"Sherlock Holmes, Sir . . . we've just received a call. _He's commit suicide._ Jumped from a roof in front of a dozen witnesses."

Lestrade could barely hear her over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

"I know he was your friend," she continued. "I'm sorry to have to give you this news."

"Where?"

"St. Bart's Hospital."

Lestrade stood and looked at her. "I need some air," he said weakly.

"Take the day, Sir. Dimmock'll look after things here."

Lestrade gave her a mechanical nod and walked past her. He had barely made it outside before he retched onto the asphalt. A few passersby asked if he needed assistance and he waved them away, muttering something about food poisoning.

His shoulders shook as he stood up. There had to be some mistake. The Sherlock Holmes he knew would never have even considered the _thought_ of suicide. He was too bloody stubborn and egotistical.

In another couple of minutes, Lestrade was in the driver's seat of his police vehicle and tore out of the car park with sirens wailing, nearly leaving a trail of burning pavement in his wake. Needless to say, it didn't take him long to reach the scene. All but throwing the Vauxhall Astra into park, Lestrade leapt out of the vehicle and rushed towards the gathered crowd outside the hospital building.

His gut clenched when he noticed the sickeningly large bloodstain on the pavement from twenty feet away. He flashed his badge and manoeuvred his way through the crowd. Sherlock's body had already been removed from the scene.

"All right, did any of you see the man whilst he was standing on the rooftop?" he asked. He scanned the crowd, watching as many people moved off and went on about their business.

"_I did_," said a strangled weak voice. He followed the sound with his eyes and alighted on a trembling form knelt upon the sidewalk. Several people were standing around the figure. One woman had her hand on the man's shoulder and Lestrade had to step sideways to properly get a look at the speaker's face.

He stilled instantly as he felt his heart stop.

"_Oh, God. John," _he said softly.

Lestrade stepped forward. He crouched down on the balls of his feet, drawing his face level with John's. He glanced at the women hovering around the blonde soldier. "It's alright," he told them. "I'm a friend." They moved off and Lestrade laid his right hand gently on John's arm. The man trembled under his touch, and gave him the singularly most soul-tortured look he'd ever seen in another person's eyes. John let out a strangled sob and Lestrade pulled him into an awkward embrace, blinking back his own tears as the shorter man buried his face into the side of his neck.

His heightened sense of smell focused on the scent of Sherlock's blood. There was so much it, it had already soaked clean through the knees of John's trousers. He held the man he'd come in the past two years to count amongst his closest friends against him, his insides twisting painfully at the wracking sobs that shook through John's body.

He found he wanted desperately to say something. _Anything_. But he wasn't fool enough to try and offer meaningless words of comfort. Instead he shifted his position so that he was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk and John twisted in his arms.

"_I tried to stop him_," he choked out. _"He called me . . . said it was his way of leaving a note. Sherlock insisted that what they're saying is all true. He was coerced into making the call . . . I know he was. But, this?! How could he have been forced to this?"_

"How is anyone forced to do anything, John?" Lestrade asked softly.

He watched John swallow down a wordless exclamation of perfectly wretched agony. His eyes red, body shaking as if threatening to fall apart, John Watson was a man who'd suddenly arrived into the deepest depths of Hell. He'd discovered the very maximum amount of pain that could be felt by the human heart. It was the exquisite and brutal torture of having both your heart and soul savagely ripped apart at the same time. He could feel no stronger agony than this.

Lestrade rubbed his hand up and down the other man's back in what he knew was a futile attempt to soothe him.

"I think he did it to save you," Lestrade said.

John suddenly pulled away and shot him a look that made it plain the army doctor was wondering if he'd gone insane.

"Put into an impossible situation, . . . forced by Moriarty to choose between your life and his, what does your heart tell you he'd do?"

John swallowed hard. "We've gotten out of impossible situations countless times before," he said thickly.

"_Before_, yes. But what if this time it truly was impossible? What if Moriarty rigged the cab you'd have taken to explode, or stationed a gunman in the crowd? What if the threat was from something you'd never have seen coming? Sherlock _loved _you, John. I know he did. He'd protect you at _all_ costs."

John let out a perfectly miserable sound and leaned his head against Lestrade's chest. The DI closed his eyes in shared pain, holding John close as he saturated his shirt with tears.

_You could bring Sherlock back for him. You know you could. Be honest with yourself, you know you want to. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to take John to see him in the morgue and turn this man's abject grief into the very deepest elation._

He let out an unsteady exhalation. Was he really prepared to leave the life he'd made for himself behind? Even given _this_ situation, could he really go back on his own word and reveal his true nature to humanity once more?

_But it's Sherlock. You know what he means to John . . . and to you. If you do this, they will be so happy to have their life together back that they won't care if you're the Judeo-Christian Satan incarnate. You know they would never purposefully hurt you. They're your friends and friends don't sell friends to shady government laboratories._

Lestrade smiled slightly. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson weren't just friends. He and John were the closest thing to family that he had. And here he was, the only man in England who could bring them back together. In the end, the decision was easy.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Lestrade raised his head. He was met with the sight of Sherlock's brother leaning upon the handle of his ever-present umbrella. His knuckles were white and his gaze was focused on the slowly drying blood that marred the pavement. Lestrade watched as Mycroft's Holmes's eyes hazed with pain. They fell shut for a long moment, Lestrade noticing the hunch of the man's shoulders and the slight spasm in the man's chest as he clearly fought to suppress his grief. When Mycroft opened his eyes, his gaze was distant and bright with unshed tears.

John trained his gaze upon Sherlock's brother. His blue eyes darkened in anger.

"He was your _brother_, Mycroft. He was your _baby brother_, and when you were the only one who could protect him, you chose to throw him to the wolves!"

"_John_," Lestrade chided. "Please, . . ."

"No, Detective Inspector, it's . . . it's alright. John is right enough."

Lestrade held Mycroft's gaze. "No, it's not alright. Nothing about _this _is right. I won't have Sherlock's lover go blaming his brother for what happened here."

John turned a look on Lestrade. "Is it really blaming someone if they are justly deserving of the accusation?"

"Please, John. Stop. I beg of you," said the DI, softly imploring the army doctor to listen.

"You're kidding, right? If this man here actually had a heart, we wouldn't be here now, and Sherlock he . . . he wouldn't be . . . _dead."_

"If I had the means to go back in time and change my actions I would," said Mycroft. "You weren't the only person who loved him, you know."

"Go to Hell!" John snarled.

The look of guilt and sorrow that shone in that moment within the depths of Mycroft's eyes made Lestrade's heart ache painfully in sympathy.

"That's enough, John. Really, well and truly so. If you can find it within yourselves to manage it, I think I should like to see him now and I'd like you both to accompany me."

"You go with Mycroft. I don't think I can look at the corpse again."

"Please, John. Please, do this for me, as my friend?"

"It's Mycroft who has to formally identify the body. Not me."

"I'd really like you to be there. I want to say a prayer and think you'd enjoy hearing it. It might give you some peace."

John let out a cold and hollow laugh. "Right, because praying for Sherlock is going to matter a gnat's arse now. It's not like you can bring him back."

Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek gently to keep himself from cracking a smile.

"All the same, John, it would mean a great deal to me to have you there."

The army doctor didn't immediately respond.

"I'll try, Lestrade. But I don't know if I can do it."

"Thanks John. I think it'll make us all feel better."

At this Mycroft actually snorted. Surprised at the sound, Lestrade and John flashed looks at the elder Holmes.

"I'm a militant atheist. As was my brother."

"Even so," the DI told the politician.

"I _really_ haven't the strength to argue with you, Detective Inspector. Though why you should want me in the room with you I can't begin to imagine."

Lestrade helped John to his feet, giving Mycroft a small smile as he did so. The man regarded him with icy detachment. Lestrade knew the man worked with the spooks of MI-5, playing puppet master to any number of secret departments. He was a very unknown quantity. If anyone had the power and means of turning him into some sort of spectacle in a secret research centre, it was this man here. Though for some reason, Lestrade wanted to trust him.

Mycroft had confessed he'd loved Sherlock. Surely, he wouldn't lock him up in some high tech cell and call every scientist in the free world to come gawk at him.

The three of them entered the building and silently boarded the lift that went down to the morgue. When it opened they found a shocked and distraught Molly Hooper in the hall.

_Bloody Hell. Add her and it'll be four humans who will know what you really are._

Lestrade met her gaze with somber regard. Her eyes became even more pain stricken as she understood why the three men were there.

"You want to see him," she said sadly. It wasn't a question. Lestrade nodded in affirmation. "I've just finished cataloguing his injuries. Follow me." The woman was doing her level best to keep her voice steady but the quiver in her lips told them she was now about to break into hysterics. Lestrade swiftly moved in and enveloped Molly in a tight hug. She sucked in a harsh breath forcing herself not to fall apart completely.

"I don't think I can be here," John said watching as Molly stepped back and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. He turned to leave and Lestrade snapped his gaze to the army doctor.

"John,_ please _don't go," Lestrade begged him. He noticed the shorter man stiffen at his words. John gave him a beseeching look.

"What are you, Greg, some kind of sadist?" he asked.

"One minute is all that I ask," Lestrade said.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked him.

"Lestrade here wants to _pray_ over Sherlock's body," John told her in a more than just slightly mocking tone. "What kind of asinine idea is that?"

"Oh," said Molly softly. "I think it's a rather lovely idea."

John let out a pained exhalation. "Sixty seconds."

"Follow me," Molly told them. She led them to a large room at the end of the hall a table separating the space between a workstation and a sink. And on that table was a body covered from head to toe in a white sheet peppered with small to midsized blood stains around the crown and forehead. Molly shut the door quietly behind her and turned on the light above Sherlock's deceased form. Mycroft moved to stand beside the head of the body.

"Whenever you're ready, Sir," Molly told Mycroft.

"Proceed," he told her. Molly folded the sheet down and exposed Sherlock's face. She looked at Mycroft who nodded curtly. Lestrade's gut clenched in raw emotion as he caught sight of the gaping head wound. The entire left side of the skull was dented and cracked looking like a gruesome parody of a smashed hard-boiled egg. As the man was still recently dead, blood glistened against his scalp mixed with matted pieces of Sherlock's unruly curls. There was something else that caught the light near Sherlock's hairline. Given the depths of the cracks, Lestrade supposed it was to be expected. He was certainly no stranger to gruesome corpses. Yet seeing Sherlock's grey-white brain matter seeping out of the edge of his skull was so shockingly wrong and beyond horrible, it made the pain in Lestrade's chest multiply to the point that it was painful to draw his next breath.

"Well, start praying," John ordered him in a decidedly military manner.

With effort, Lestrade managed to take in a deep steadying breath.

"Here we go then," he said. There was no turning back now. He stepped up to Sherlock's left shoulder, standing across from Mycroft. He reached out and set his right palm on the dead man's cold shoulder bone. Things then began to change. Lestrade's hand was slowly outlined in bright gold light, flaring brilliantly around the edges. Quickly the light began to travel from his hand into Sherlock's body, illuminating the dead man's skin as if he were some kind of parody of a paper lantern. The light danced and multiplied into dozens of threads of brilliant colors, all moving together in quick looping and crisscrossing patterns as they traversed Sherlock's form. It was a little like the patterns of sunlight seen in an underwater photograph, only much more transfixing. Perhaps a little like the moving animations in Disney's Fantasia, then? Lestrade smiled, feeling warmth return to Sherlock's body. He leant over and exhaled gently over Sherlock's face, his breath producing a puff of sparkling rainbow glittered mist. Every color known to the human eye and even some that weren't shifted and swirled in vaporous clouds around Sherlock's injuries. The blood vanished, gashes knit seamlessly together, and skin returned to Sherlock's normal hue, regaining a healthy pink tint in his cheeks.

The colors were beautiful, even to Lestrade. The progress of the movements made him grin. Joy flooded warmth into his heart as the strings of color playing over Sherlock's skin harmonized their flashes and movements with the light in the mist hovering just above his flesh. It was the universe's greatest light show.

A purple silk shirt, black trousers, and the consulting detective's favorite shoes appeared on his body as well though Sherlock was still quite covered from the waist down.

The rainbows above and below his skin continued their complex pas de deux for a minute more, their color changing patterns increasing in speed and complexity. Finally, at the peak of the intricate choreography, the vaporous glow of Lestrade's breath absorbed into Sherlock's skin and the Detective Inspector became acutely aware of the sound of his own collared shirt ripping at the seams.

His shoulder muscles bunched and shifted as intricately patterned grey feathered wings sprouted from his back. He had a fleeting thought of Donovan, wondering whether she'd call him a freak if she could see him now. He'd probably never know. He stretched his muscles and spread his wings slightly not quite willing to flaunt them, but taking comfort in the pleasure of being in his true form. It had been quite a long time. He pulled off the tattered remnants of his shirt, idly throwing them on the linoleum floor, just as Sherlock began to stir.

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily and blinked a few times. His gaze moved from Mycroft to John, from John to Molly, and at last came to rest upon Lestrade. His gaze narrowed there for a few seconds as if captioned by a "_What's wrong with this picture?"_ He then looked back at John and slowly sat up, discarding the sheet onto the floor. He smiled at the blonde and that was all it took for the doctor to come out of his shocked trance. He nearly leapt forward and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Don't you ever, ever, _ever_ do something like this again!" John said.

Sherlock regarded the man deeply. "Don't ever sacrifice myself to save you from getting shot by a sniper? It was me or you, John. He made me choose. And if I had to do it all over again I'd make the same choice a thousand times over. I love you, John. I love you more than anything in this world, myself very much included." Sherlock took John's face between his hands and slanted a firm kiss over the army doctor's mouth. John enthusiastically returned the kiss, opening his mouth beneath Sherlock's pliant lips and allowing the consulting detective access to slide his tongue against his in a deeply heartfelt and joyous dance. Mycroft shifted his gaze to Lestrade. The look in the man's dark blue eyes was full of interest. Lestrade met Mycroft's gaze with an easy smile, not expecting him to return it. The ginger haired politician's lips quirked up into a tiny but nonetheless noticeable display of genuine pleasure.

"I suppose I now have at least a couple more secrets to keep. I daresay if this continues, the rumours about me will soon be quite true."

It was then that Lestrade asked a question he would never have dared asked the elder Holmes brother while in human form. "Rumours, you say? The most delicious ones are always partly true, you know. Tell me, what do they say about you?"

Mycroft's little smile turned into a genuine smirk. "Oh, nothing too exciting, I'm afraid. Just that I'm very probably privy to the most confidential information in the entire Northern Hemisphere."

Lestrade let out a laugh. "You mean to say that's not true already?"

"If it wasn't before today, I'm pretty confident it is now." Again, Mycroft graced him with that little teasing smile. The expression looked good on him. _Quite_ good, if Lestrade was honest. He was roused out of thinking about the way Mycroft Holmes' lips moved when he smiled by Sherlock's voice. It seemed the consulting detective and army doctor had finally finished their celebratory snog.

"Right then. Anyone have a packet of crisps or something?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft, Molly, and John simply stared. Lestrade looked at Sherlock and a little assortment of snacks appeared on his lap. Sherlock selected some pretzels and tore the bag open, arching a brow at the shirtless and winged Detective Inspector.

"So shall I continue calling you Lestrade, or do you prefer a different appellation?"

"Surprisingly enough, Lestrade really is my name. But I do rather enjoy Greg or Gregory even."

Sherlock popped a pretzel into his mouth and crunched happily. He then hopped off the table and walked around Lestrade.

"Might I feel your feathers?" he ventured, looking hopeful and perhaps a little sheepish.

Lestrade smiled and stretched a wing out towards Sherlock. "Of course you can! Just mind not to go against the grain if you please."

Sherlock smiled in boyish delight and tentatively ran his fingers down the feathers along the outer edge of Lestrade's mottled grey wing. "Oh that is most utterly delightful," said Sherlock in awe. "Wondrously soft." After a few more moments he looked up at the room's other occupants. "Really, you all must come and stroke his wing!"

Molly took a hesitant step forward. "They might just be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she breathed in amazement.

Lestrade smiled. "What are you trying to say there, Molly? That my wings are _prettier _than the rest of me?"

The woman colored instantly. "Oh no, no! Believe me, you're certainly quite handsome, . . . but oh I think you know what I mean."

"I do," he told her. He gave her a knowing wink. She took another decidedly more confident step towards him and he offered her his wing.

"My goodness," she murmured, nearly purring at the pleasure of the contact between her fingertips and Lestrade's gloriously soft feathers. Her voice held a decidedly erotic undercurrent. She peered up at him. "You aren't an angel then, are you? I rather doubt an angel's wings would feel this . . . well, . . . _sinful._"

"Angels as you think of them don't actually exist. I'm . . . rather a bit more complicated. I'll gladly give you a full explanation in a more comfortable setting."

"What are you then?" John asked, speaking for the first time to Lestrade, his voice only slightly cracking.

"Have you watched Star Trek: The Next Generation?"

"Yes . . ."

"I'm a bit like Q, only instead of being a cosmic trickster, I'm a cosmic protector or guardian of sorts. And I'm not quite omnipotent or omniscient. Earth's a physical world, and as such, I'm subject to its physicality. My body and mind can still feel pain. Mycroft could bayonet me through the chest with that umbrella right now and while it wouldn't be able to kill me it would cause me enough pain that I wouldn't be able to retaliate very quickly."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade with equal parts interest and curiosity.

"How many _cosmic protectors_ are there on Earth, if I may ask?" Mycroft inquired.

"Not many. At the moment, there's probably less than ten of us. We don't exactly keep in touch."

"And to think that all these years I thought you were just a relatively intelligent Detective Inspector," said Sherlock, looking up from breathing in the scent of John's hair. John stood with his back to Sherlock's chest, the consulting detective's long arms wrapped around the doctor's waist protectively.

"I'd like to think I still am," Lestrade told him honestly.

Sherlock snorted impudently. "Sure."

John smiled. "You be nice! If Greg wants to be a Detective Inspector, that's his choice. He makes a damn fine DI, and if you ask me, he deserves to be whatever the bloody hell he wants to be."

"Why not PM? Or even Mycroft's position?" Sherlock asked seriously. Lestrade noted the sideways look the elder Holmes sent his brother. He couldn't help but smile.

"Are we going to discuss the finer details of my existence in St. Barts' morgue?"

"No, we most certainly are not," said Mycroft. "I'll have a car brought round to the nearest exit. It might be a tight fit, I'm afraid, but I'm sure the five of us can squeeze in." He quickly texted a message on his mobile, looking at Lestrade when he finished. "Are you amenable to the idea of having tea at my London townhouse?"

Lestrade stared at the government man, asking the question as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ask of Detective Inspectors who brought their brothers back to life and sprouted enormous feathered wings from their backs in the process.

"I'd like that," Lestrade told Mycroft. The ginger haired Holmes brother then gifted him with a genuine smile that sent warmth into the center of his chest. There was awe, gratitude, and a reflection of such deep happiness reflected in the man's gaze that Lestrade found the wariness of the man he'd earlier felt slipping away entirely. Lestrade took a single step closer to Mycroft. He turned and stretched his wings out to full spread, a good twelve feet from wingtip to wingtip. He heard a couple of footsteps as Mycroft drew closer. Then, a gentle hand settled against his right wing. There was a sudden sharp intake of breath from the man behind him.

"Oh my, yes indeed!" exclaimed the elder Holmes. Lestrade leaned his wing against the man's hand and closed his eyes as the man reverently caressed the feathers with his long aristocratic fingers. Lestrade felt himself relax under the politician's touch. The way the man's hand traced down the flesh of his wing created a bloom of heat that settled low in his body. He made a deep sound of pleasure, that was very nearly a moan, as an unexpected wave of ecstasy shot down his spine.

His eyes suddenly flew open and Mycroft hastily withdrew his hand.

Lestrade swallowed hard. "_Sorry_," he said quickly, stiffening his shoulders. "It's just . . . been such a long time since anyone's touched my wings," he told Mycroft pivoting to meet the man's surprised gaze. "And you, well forgive me for saying this in front of the others, but you have rather lovely hands."

Mycroft blinked in rapid succession, perhaps at a completely bewildered loss for words for the very first time in his life. He colored slightly under Lestrade's gaze.

"I think we'll all agree we've spent enough time here. Shall we go meet my driver?"

Sherlock smirked at his brother having been caught off guard, very much looking like the Cheshire Cat.

"Ow!" he yelped, glaring down at John who'd covertly elbowed him in his ribs. Molly smiled and shook her head at their antics.

"Just do me one favour," she told the two of them.

"Of course, Molly," said John. "Name it."

Her smile widened. "No silly frilly frocks. I'd much prefer something simple and satin."

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked. Sherlock grinned.

"Honestly, Molly, what do you take us for? Do we look like the type of couple that dictates the exact style and details of what our Maid of Honor wears to our wedding?"

"I don't know. You two are crazy even in the best of circumstances. I just figured I'd warn you now."

Mycroft's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He swiftly answered it.

"We'll be right along, Anthea. Drive round the block once more if you must. I'm afraid I can't give you any more details over the phone."He then ended the call.

Sherlock regarded him innocently, munching loudly on another pretzel.

"Please tell me you're quite ready to leave this place," Mycroft said to his brother.

"Lead the way, brother dear," Sherlock replied, biting a pretzel in half.

Mycroft turned back to Lestrade. "Follow me. The vehicle has two standard bench seats. I should think your best bet would be to sit by the window and curl one wing around the corner and extend the other across the seat. I'm afraid someone will need to sit next to you, and hopefully you can work out the positioning logistics so you aren't in each other's way."

"I'm the smallest," Molly said. "I'll sit next to Mr. Silky Feathered DI,"

Both Lestrade and Sherlock snorted at that.

"What?" Molly asked innocently. Mycroft heaved a beleaguered sigh.

"Look, you may make all make all the innuendos and lewd jokes that you like, so long as you do it in any place that _isn't_ _here_."

He meaningfully held the door open, a clear indication for everyone to leave the room. He raised a brow imperiously, as if challenging them to question him. Lestrade stepped into the hall, looking about self-consciously, hoping there were no hospital personnel in the corridor. The linoleum-floored hallway was fortunately very empty.

No one spoke as they left the building, each wondering what would happen if a group of strangers saw them. Luckily, the only living things they encountered as they walked to the stretch of asphalt that circled around the back of the building were a group of pigeons.

Lestrade opened the door of the modified black Cadillac Escalade just as the driver rolled down her window and stuck her head out of the vehicle in surprise.

"Hello, Anthea dear," said Mycroft smoothly.

Lestrade ducked into the vehicle folding and bending his wings to find the most comfortable position. Molly got in from the other side and slid into the seat next to him. Mycroft John and Sherlock then squeezed in to the line of seats opposite.

Once everyone was piled in Mycroft turned in his seat to look at his trusted personal assistant. She was staring in the mirror in close-lipped shock at Lestrade.

"Hi," Lestrade said good-naturedly. Mycroft sighed in defeat. He unbuckled his safety belt and hopped out of the car.

"I'm driving," he declared. The brunette blanched at the statement. "No, don't even think of apologising. Come now, Anthea, encountering a man with wings is not something you train for at the Home Office. I won't have you wrecking the car whilst gawking at him. In fact, take my seat so you can gawk at him better."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and Sherlock sighed sliding an arm possessively around John's shoulder.

"Not how you thought your day would go?" Sherlock asked the DI.

Lestrade barked out a stream of laughter. "No Sherlock, I'll admit this is the last thing I envisioned happening when I got out of bed this morning."

Mycroft's assistant buckled herself into Mycroft's previous seat and her boss eased onto the accelerator. John gave Anthea a friendly smile.

"Welcome to our club of merry insanity."

Lestrade could only smile at John's words. _Merry insanity indeed._


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade had briefly considered teleporting the vehicle to Mycroft's townhouse to avoid the muscle cramp he knew would manifest in the joint where his right wing met his shoulder blade. Alas, there was only so much shock that a human mind be expected to handle, _even _ridiculously sharp ones such as those possessed by the Holmes brothers.

The drive to Mycroft's rental property in Chelsea took over half an hour in the late afternoon traffic. Lestrade made an ineffectual attempt to shift positions, his left wing nearly catching Molly in the face as he did so. Cars were just simply not made to fit winged men in their backseats. So he settled as best as he could and contented himself with watching the goings on of the busy streets around them. Fortunately the windows were tinted so you could only see if you were looking from the inside out. The very last thing he needed right now was for the public at large to catch wind of his existence. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Winged Man Spotted in SUV Along the Thames . . . it sounded as if it was straight out of some horridly cheap tabloid.

Sherlock met his gaze, glancing up at him from where John rested with his head against the detective's shoulder, their hands entwined against Sherlock's leg.

"I . . . I didn't have a chance to say it before, so let me say it now . . . _thank you_."

Lestrade smiled. "The two of you are meant for each other. I wasn't about to stand by and let a silly thing like death keep you apart."

"Was it really so trivial for you?" Sherlock asked softly. John didn't raise his head but raised his gaze towards Lestrade as they awaited his answer.

"For me, it was as easy as one of you typing a few lines of very basic HTML code for a blog."

"Does that mean you can resurrect anyone or anything? Could you bring back Sir Walter Raleigh? Or Aristotle? Or a Diplodocus?"

"I rather doubt a Diplodocus would fit in your flat, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. "Well, . . . maybe if it was a hatchling." He shook his head at the stunned looks on the two men's faces.

"Don't get any ideas, Sherlock," Mycroft said from the driver's seat. "Gregory is _not_ making you a dinosaur. Poor thing would almost certainly starve to death in this concrete jungle."

"What _can't_ you do?" Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade didn't immediately say anything. "I can do anything you can think of and then some. There's just one thing I can't do."

They all patiently waited for him to continue. He sighed heavily.

"I've gotten so good at pretending to be human . . . I can fool anyone of your species that I am indeed one of you. I guess I thought that with time, and when I say time, I mean _centuries_, I could find one to fall in love with . . . you know, . . . one who might care enough not to betray me. After my most recent marriage failed, I've come to accept that for whatever reason, long-term romantic relationships with humans are just impossible. And here would be where I shut the hell up with my inane sentimentality."

No one immediately said anything.

"Maybe you just haven't found the right human," John told him.

"I'll share my better stories with you over a pint someday. Then we'll see if you still believe that's true."

Molly laid a comforting hand against Lestrade's outstretched wing. Even Anthea gave him a kind look.

"You said you've been involved with humans for centuries," Molly said. "How many years are you talking about, exactly?"

"I've been on this planet since the year 1497."

"You don't look a day over forty-five at the most," Anthea commented.

"I was forty years old when I first arrived and we can't physically age much more than that."

"When was the last time you showed your true self to a human?" John asked.

"A long time. Not since I helped defend London in World War II," Lestrade told him.

They drove in silence for the rest of the way, the humans trying their level best to come to terms with every piece of information Lestrade presented to them. Mycroft parked in the underground garage next to the row of townhouses, taking his usual spot for his personal vehicles.

"I'm glad to see your brains haven't exploded yet," Lestrade commented to the group once he had carefully extricated himself from the vehicle. Sherlock rolled his eyes meaningfully, catching Lestrade's gaze.

"What, do you have a daily quota of only one on healing deadly brain injuries?"

Anthea looked askance at him but didn't move to say anything.

"Oh, no. It's not that," Lestrade told him, unfurling his wings to maximum stretch behind the car. He heard a rather satisfying pop as muscles and ligaments shifted into a rather more natural alignment. "More like I'd hate to be the cause of any mental harm associated with the shock of seeing me like this."

Mycroft sniffed. "We're _Holmeses._ It's hardwired into the depths of our breeding not to startle easily."

John snorted. "Alright Mycroft, tell me right now you aren't as fucking flabbergasted at this as the rest of us, and I'll write you a cheque for a thousand quid right this bloody instant."

"Careful John," Sherlock warned. "You're talking to a man who tells lies for a living."

Mycroft shot his brother an affronted look. "I promise you, it's rather more complicated than that, _dear brother_."

Sherlock shook his head irreverently. "Whatever let's you sleep at night,_ frater_."

John sighed tiredly. "You aren't even going to dignify my question with a response, are you, Mycroft?"

"Keep your money, John," the government official said magnanimously.

Lestrade bit back a laugh, his gaze alighting on Molly, catching the woman in the act of sharing a tiny smile with the British Government's trusty personal assistant. The ME leaned in and whispered something into the brunette's ear. Anthea's smile widened as the six of them set off towards the lift in the corner of the garage.

Fortunately the lift was quite moderately sized so they all fit without any awkward cramming of bodies. Still, the five humans had to stand quite close to Lestrade, close enough to breathe in the scent of his body. The lift ride was short much less than thirty seconds in and out. It was only when the door reopened that Lestrade stiffened in realization of his mistake for allowing himself to stand so close to them all after his unexpected reaction earlier to Mycroft. He practically bolted from their proximity upon exiting its doors. It took several agonizingly long seconds before any of the humans spoke.

Molly looked at him wide eyed. "Do you _always_ smell like that?" she asked in a nearly quavering voice.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ Lestrade thought. How could he have been so stupid as to momentarily forget such a major aspect of his true nature?!

"Only when I inadvertently release pheromones," he said in a small voice, color rising in his face as he stared at the five humans in terrified embarrassment. His eyes unwillingly darted to Mycroft's face and the man made a strange sound in the back of his throat.

"I'm so very, very sorry." Lestrade said quickly.

Sherlock glanced at his brother with a smirk. "This just gets more interesting by the second, doesn't it?" He turned back to Lestrade with an amused look. "Really, Lestrade, you could have any person on this planet you so desired, and you want _him_?"

"Don't be cruel, Sherlock," John snapped under his breath.

"I know you said you fancied the feel of his hand on your wing but really, you must remember his hands are attached to the rest of him and _he's the very definition of a cold fish_. Don't waste your time trying. You'd likely have better results in attempting to seduce that brick wall over there."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, that's enough!" John yelled.

"What, I'm only telling him the _truth_, John," Sherlock muttered innocently. "Didn't you tell me that being honest to people you care about is part of being human?"

"That's not what I meant!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, nearly looking like he was about to stamp his foot in childish protest but somehow managing to refrain. "Then you bloody well should have mentioned the exceptions! It really gets quite confusing when you keep saying one thing and meaning another!"

Anthea trained her gaze on her boss. "Perhaps the four of us should get out of your hair," she suggested.

"No," Mycroft said. "My brother's puerile remarks have long ceased their ability to raise my blood pressure. And as it stands, I find that I'm willing to give him a free pass for today as it seems Sherlock's already deduced. Let's get inside, so the security footage that needs to be erased is kept to a minimum."

Mycroft didn't look at Lestrade as he led the way across the walk to the building and keyed in his personal access code. He held the door open as they all filed inside the expansive wood floored sitting room. Mycroft shut the door and flicked on a switch that turned on the large chandelier-esque light fixture in the ceiling.

"You know," John said to Sherlock as he sat down on the cream colored sofa at the center of the room. "I'm surprised you aren't a bit angry at yourself, Sherlock, for failing to deduce that our good Detective Inspector here isn't really human."

"I'm saving that for tomorrow. Today I'm afraid both my temporal lobes are already quite occupied with processing the experience of jumping off a roof to my death and coming back to life with the aid of the Detective Inspector's god like abilities."

"Sod the tea, I need a real drink," John declared, looking at Mycroft hopefully.

"Will single-malt Scotch fit the bill, John?" the elder Holmes brother asked.

"Yeah, I think it will, but only if you give me the entire bottle."

Mycroft sighed theatrically. "Really, _Captain _Watson, don't you think drinking it straight from the bottle might be a bit too plebian, even for you? Besides, what if the ladies wish to have some?"

John actually let out an exasperated groan. He sent Lestrade, who was standing behind the sofa an imploring look of entreaty.

"Can you please just send us all back in time and erase today from our memories? And kill Moriarty before he ever knew that Sherlock existed?"

"There would be a few complications to doing something that extreme. I'm not comfortable with the risk it would pose to all of you. However, I'm more than happy to offer my services as your magic genie of alcoholic beverages."

"Oh, might I trouble you for a glass of pinot grigio?" Molly asked.

"Make that two, please," Anthea told him.

Two glasses of white wine appeared on the coffee table and the women gratefully excepted their drinks. Molly held her glass up to Anthea's and the brunette clinked her glass against Molly's obligingly.

"John, can I get you anything?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm rather set on Mycroft's Scotch. It's certain to be something posh and expensive."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It's an inarguable fact that excellence is directly proportionate to monetary value. When circumstances allow, I prefer to enjoy the finer things in life and am prepared to pay accordingly."

"Just hand it over, will you?" John asked.

Mycroft snorted, his hand resting protectively on the bottle of Scotch.

"With that attitude, you really don't deserve this bottle of 18 year Macallan."

"Fine. I'll get Greg to give me my own then."

"Take it, John. You clearly need it more than I do," Mycroft said, walking over and handing the bottle to John. "Greg is not your personal wish-granter."

"Today he was," John said, startlingly serious. Mycroft watched as John made short work of the bottle's seal, unscrewed the lid, and took a hearty sip of the contents. The army doctor smiled serenely. "Ah, yes, that's the ticket."

Mycroft drew his gaze to the gloriously feathered Detective Inspector standing with his arms resting on the back of his sofa. His body went suddenly still as he took in the sight of Lestrade's naked torso framed by the exquisite shape of his wings. Sherlock caught him looking. Shockingly, the younger Holmes kept his mouth shut. Sherlock shifted position and pulled John's back flush against his chest, his expression indicating he never wanted to let the shorter man out of his sight ever again.

Lestrade held the man's vivid blue gaze, ignoring the heat building and aching inside of him. He watched agonized, as the elder Holmes met his look, the man's expression one almost of fear. It would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone else, but for someone who knew how to read a Holmes's body language, the change was noticeable enough.

Lestrade forced himself to shift his gaze to the two women who were chatting in low tones across the room. They seemed to be getting on well. That was good. Mycroft retreated away from him and took a seat in his chair by the decorative fireplace.

He didn't know what had come over him. All he could think about was the feel of Mycroft's hand on his wing, and how deliberate and measured the man's movements had been. Sherlock and Molly had touched his wing too and he'd derived no physical pleasure from them. He'd mistakenly thought the same would be true when Mycroft stepped up and ran his palm over his feathers. But oh, how wrong he had been. The way the man's masculinely elegant fingers had traced over his wing stirred something sharp and primal deep within him. And the realization of the fact had subsequently hit him like a freight train.

What the hell was wrong with him? This was the man that could snap his fingers and he'd be locked in a maximum-security cell hidden in some shady government lab. A single call on his mobile, and Mycroft could seal his fate as some shocking novelty akin to a very bizarre parody of a lab rat.

No, he had to trust him. He _did_ trust him. He sensed that Mycroft was at the very least, an honorable human being. Surely, he'd let him go back to his made-up life and continue to play at being one of London's most respected Detective Inspectors.

But oh, there was a part of him that shrank at the very _idea_ of walking away from this man without exploring the possibilities. He grit his teeth at the imagined image of Mycroft touching his wings again, his body going loose and pliant at the man's skilled ministrations. Who was he kidding? If that look he'd just seen in the man's eyes had been any indication, there was no snowball's chance in hell of Mycroft ever touching any part of him.

Why the fuck had he even let them touch his wings in the first place? If he hadn't done that, he wouldn't be in this total debacle now. He hadn't foreseen himself having such a visceral reaction. And why should he have? He'd never given Sherlock's mysterious brother a second thought before. He never imagined he could ever feel such a powerfully erotic response to a human's touch while in his true form. It didn't make any sense. He shuddered as his body emphatically voiced its physical needs, blood rushing quickly to his groin. His chest tightened in a sudden spasm of shock and horrified terror.

_Oh, no. Not this, not again._

An uncomfortable silence instantly descended upon the room.

"I swear, I'm not doing it intentionally!" Lestrade cried out in a choked voice.

"Let me see if I understand this accurately," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "When you get aroused in your natural state it makes you release powerful sexual pheromones. Humans are highly sensitive to these pheromones and any humans within your vicinity at the time will experience sudden and might I say _heightened_ arousal. Is that about the gist of it?"

"That's as good as any explanation I could give you," Lestrade said staring at a far-off point in the grain of the front door.

"Can you not simply switch back to your human body?" Mycroft asked sharply.

"Not right away, or else believe me, I already would have done. It's going to take a bit of time for me to regulate the energy in my body from bringing Sherlock back to life. Until it's normalized, I can't take human form. It's likely to be six hours at the earliest."

"Six hours?" Anthea asked. "Do you realise how much pain we'll all be in if we're supposed to endure this for six hours? Besides, the men will suffer irreparable physical damage long before that."

Sherlock snapped his gaze to Mycroft. "She's right, you know."

Lestrade could only imagine the lovely shade of crimson that was quickly creeping over his cheeks and down his neck.

"This is a terrible accident," he said. "If I'd known . . . I'd have waited until Mycroft left Saint Bart's. It's actually really rare for this to happen to my species in regards to attraction to a human. I . . . I honestly don't know what to say."

"There you have it then, Mycroft," Sherlock said decisively. "Now man up and give Lestrade here a good and thorough shagging. And really, let's face it, it's not as if you haven't wanted to jump him from the second we stepped out of the lift."

Mycroft's gaze alighted upon Lestrade and the DI saw the intensity of the man's desire written into the depths of his lust blown pupils. The sparkling black eyes were brimming with unspoken desire.

"Actually, you are predictably wrong once again, Sherlock. I've wanted to 'jump' him as you so eloquently put it from the very moment I first laid eyes on him years ago."

Lestrade felt the air go out of his lungs as he jerked his head back at the shocking declaration. He had been feeling so utterly disgusted and ashamed of himself for forcing this upon them. Sure as he could possibly have been that his physical attraction to the government man in the posh three-piece suits was nothing if not decidedly one-sided. Had he really been so wrong? He watched, mesmerized, as the ginger-haired gentleman rose gracefully from his chair. Lestrade forced himself to refrain from letting his gaze drift down Mycroft's body. He could smell his own pheromones permeating the air in a veritable flood of lust. Mycroft Holmes would have to be a robot not to already be sporting an impressively sized hard-on.

This couldn't really be happening, could it? The past two hours had been so bizarre that perhaps this was some unnervingly vivid dream. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep at his desk and everything was just his imagination running wild. Sherlock had never jumped from the building and he hadn't had to raise him from the dead. Mycroft hadn't seen him in his true form and he most certainly hadn't confessed to harboring some sort of long-suppressed attraction towards him that made Lestrade's breath hitch in heady anticipation.

Mycroft came to stand at his side, the atmosphere in the room having turned utterly electric. Lestrade watched as Mycroft breathed deeply, taking in his chemical 'scent' as if he were breathing the aroma of the world's most expensive wine. And when the man smiled in wicked appreciation all thoughts of doubt fled from Lestrade's mind.

"Let us consider this a suspension of reality, Detective Inspector. For truly, given our present circumstances, how else are we to proceed? This is no fault of your own. I shall hear no apologies. My brother is alive because of your actions today, and the trust you placed in all of us to reveal your true nature. I know you did not contrive your biological reaction to my touch. It was a response beyond your control. Yet however accidental, _something_ must now be done about it."

Lestrade swallowed, his mouth having gone incredibly dry.

"This feels wrong. Like I'm forcing you . . . "

Sherlock shifted his position to glare pointedly at Lestrade.

"Would you rather have the three of us suffer a debilitating case of priapism?"

"I could easily use my power to prevent lasting damage. The energy needed for something as simple as that could be created once I return to human form."

"What would we do about the next six hours?" John asked hoarsely.

Lestrade didn't say anything. For indeed, what was there to say?

"If left to our own devices, I think we'd end up doing things we'd all regret," said Molly.

"Indeed, such as the five of us defiling the hardwood floor in a rather desperate orgy," said Sherlock. He grimaced at the thought. "I'd really rather not have to share John with the others."

The army doctor elbowed him in the ribs.

"You don't understand," Lestrade said gravely. "I can't control when my body decides to stop releasing the pheromones. A single orgasm doesn't usually arrest the stream."

Anthea sniffed delicately. She snatched her hand out and caught hold of the other woman's wrist. Molly promptly downed the last third of her wine.

"Suspension of reality, _Gregory,_" Mycroft intoned, making a valiant effort to keep his voice steady. He was _mostly_ able to, but the very slight waver in his iron-fisted control as noted by the barely perceptible tremor in his tone made a burst of lust lance through his body. "You are very clearly not a man, just as I am very clearly not an animal. However, if you agree to never, _ever_ speak of what happens here once you leave this place, I assure you I can gratify your every desire."

Sherlock's hand skimmed low on John's stomach. "I'll thank you to continue your little speech upstairs, Mycroft." He trailed his fingertips across the taut bulge in John's trousers and a breathy moan escaped the smaller man's lips before he even knew what he was doing. Sherlock rose awkwardly, shifting John's weight so his lover was momentarily sitting with his back to the sofa and then proceeded to swiftly pull the army doctor into a standing position.

"Sherlock," John said in that voice he used when he knew he should understand Sherlock's motives but didn't. "What's wrong with the sofa?"

"We're leaving it to the lesbians," Sherlock stated simply. He nudged John and watched as he looked over at Molly and Anthea who were engaged in a heated lip lock. "We'll make use of Mycroft's study. There's a wonderful leather loveseat in there."

He led John by the hand behind the sofa. Sherlock then stopped to tap Lestrade on the side of his folded wing.

"None of us were anticipating this," he stated, holding out his hand with a carefully raised brow.

Lestrade stared for a second at Sherlock's outstretched hand and a tube of high-end lubricant appeared in Sherlock's palm.

"Right then. Come along, John." The army doctor didn't have to be told twice allowing himself to be led away by his lover.

Once Sherlock had left, Mycroft's gaze turned positively lascivious.

"Shall we go upstairs and discuss in detail the unspeakable acts you wish me to perform upon you?"

Lestrade's pupils dilated and his entire body bloomed with molten heat.

"So I'm not imagining this?" Lestrade asked, his body and mind blazing with wanton desire. He found he suddenly forgot how to breathe as Mycroft gently took his hand in his and brought it against the very large bulge in his trousers. Mycroft's eyes flew closed and he leaned his body into Lestrade's cupped palm.

"I guarantee you there is nothing remotely imaginary about _this_, Gregory," he said huskily as he gave a couple of emphatic thrusts.

"Yes, bedroom indeed then." Lestrade murmured.

Not letting go of Lestrade's wrist, Mycroft led the winged DI up curved slatted staircase to the upper story. They stepped out of their shoes and socks as they moved from the landing and into the hall. Lestrade sought closer contact with Mycroft, snatching hold of his burgundy tie and claiming the other man's lips as his own in a powerfully possessive kiss. Mycroft responded in kind, deftly sweeping his tongue into the winged man's mouth and allowing Lestrade equal access. Lestrade nipped Mycroft's lower lip playfully and the man returned the gesture with wanton fervor. Their breath mingled as one, as they both sought to mark and dominate the other. The passion escalated into a decidedly brutal intensity, becoming a raw and determined assault in their shared goal of mutual gratification. Finally when their panting had reached a fever pitch they tore their mouths away from each other, staring into each other's eyes with equally predatory satisfaction. Lestrade's erection twitched at the sight of Mycroft's stubble burned cheeks and kiss swollen lips. He smiled mischievously at the government agent and Mycroft raised a delicate brow in teasing question. He opened the door beside him and swiftly pulled Lestrade into a palatial sized master bedroom. The room was trimmed in rich dark colors, dark grey carpeting lay beneath the dark wooden king sized bed. The thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets were a rich hunter green. The walls were a striking shade of deep navy blue. There was a lithograph of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ on the wall in a gold trimmed frame, but Lestrade barely noticed it as Mycroft released his grip on his wrist and started in on divesting him of his trousers.

Lestrade hissed as Mycroft unzipped the garment and shoved the offending piece of clothing down past his hips so that it quickly fell to pool at his ankles. Mycroft then dipped a hand into his pants and playfully jerked Lestrade forward. The inhuman Detective Inspector drank in the sight of the posh and powerful man smirking wickedly in the instant before he curled his fingers around his hardened length. And in the immediate seconds that followed, Lestrade would be damned if he didn't actually see stars.

A low baritone chuckle reverberated deep within Mycroft's chest and Lestrade arched his back, letting out a wordless moan as the ginger-haired gentleman delicately circled the head of his aching cock with a nimble index finger.

Lestrade nearly forgot how to breathe. He wasn't sure how it was even possible for bodily contact with a human being to feel this earth-shatteringly erotic. By all accounts such sharp physical pleasure should not have even been possible in such a coupling. Certainly not when he was 'wearing his wings'.

His legs nearly buckled when Mycroft promptly dropped to his knees and gave a judicious lick to the throbbing vein along the underside of his penis. The man made a noise of intrigued interest, his breath huffing against Lestrade's throbbing flesh. The sometimes human policeman suddenly wondered if his body might actually explode and decided that maybe he actually wanted it to.

He cried out loudly, a harsh and swift exclamation, as Mycroft placed his lips around him and drew him deeply into his mouth. Lestrade involuntarily jerked his hips forward and Mycroft skillfully slackened his jaw, taking him in even further.

Leave it to Mycroft bloody fucking Holmes to be capable of entirely suppressing a gag reflex. Lestrade found himself wondering just how many cocks this man had swallowed. It was quite obviously a fair number.

Mycroft ran his hands around Lestrade's hips to slide down and firmly massage the muscles of his buttocks as he proceeded to bob his head along the heated velvety length of his shaft.

Lestrade let his head loll back as his eyes closed in white-hot mind-crushing ecstacy. A violent shudder ripped through every atom of his being and he keened shamelessly at the teasing actions of Mycroft's mouth. The man was doing oh so _creatively dirty_ things with his lips, teeth, and tongue that Lestrade could only tremble and cradle Mycroft's head against him as he fought to remain upright.

He gave a loud and ragged shout, his eyes opening wide as Mycroft's long middle finger breached his entrance and probed into his body. The politician hummed deep within his chest, making his whole mouth vibrate against him. He angled his hand and the man's index finger deftly disappeared deep inside of him.

He let out a breathless "Oh" of pleasure as Mycroft scissored his fingers in time with the downward movements of his mouth. His grip on Mycroft's head tightened convulsively and Mycroft hummed again, the sound vibrating every fiber of his body right down to the very core of his soul. Mycroft played and sucked, worshipping every square millimeter of his steely hardness. Lestrade couldn't think as Mycroft hollowed his cheeks and sucked for all he was worth. In a scant number of minutes Lestrade was thrusting into Mycroft's deliciously talented mouth with reckless abandon. He couldn't think straight and was only vaguely aware that the harsh and rather animalistic noises filling the room were actually originating from his very own vocal cords.

Lestrade shuddered and snapped his hips, every muscle in his body jerking taut. He spilled himself deeply down Mycroft's throat, the other man swallowing flawlessly as if he gave phenomenal soul-scorching blowjobs every damn day of his life. Hell, maybe he did.

The winged DI was still panting when Mycroft withdrew his mouth and hands, the elder Holmes brother watching him inscrutably as he caught his breath, his hands resting aristocratically on his hips. Lestrade moved his wings, flapping them out as he shook out residual tingling sensations that coursed through his body.

"Shall I assume that giving blowjobs is part of your job description?" Lestrade asked jokingly when he felt comfortable trying his voice.

Mycroft smirked, his eyes twinkling darkly. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"That's not exactly a 'no'."

Mycroft snorted indelicately. "Assume whatever you like."

"You realise I have ways of finding things out that aren't exactly available to your average human being. Or really, _any _human being for that matter, average or otherwise."

Mycroft graced him with an utterly enigmatic smile. "I would invite you to try, only I'd hate to see you disappointed."

Lestrade narrowed his gaze. "With a comment like that, I'd almost think you weren't exactly human yourself . . . yet I know full well that you most definitely are."

The man's self-sure smile deepened. It was clear he would offer no further information on the subject. Lestrade was both intrigued and more than a little annoyed at the same time.

"You're as impossible as Sherlock. You do know that, right?"

"Ah, but do not tell that to my little brother."

Lestrade snorted. He let his gaze fall from the man's face to the straining erection tenting his impossibly expensive trousers.

"How about I give you the best orgasm you've ever had and in return you tell me in detail why you suggest that I would be unable to use my powers to learn exactly what you do for the government?"

Mycroft remained unfazed. "I'm afraid I neither condone nor accept bribery."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Fine, have it your way. It's not really the time to argue, is it?"

"I don't know, I find that a little pain with my pleasure can be _quite stimulating._"

Lestrade let out a choked cough. "Oh, really?"

Mycroft gracefully rose to his feet. "You're welcome to fuck me and verify it for yourself," he said in a husky purr.

Lestrade couldn't help but smile in wanton delight. "I do believe I'm already getting hard again. One of the better perks of not being human, I should say."

The ever-present smug twist of the lips returned. "Indeed."

A sudden orgasmic shriek drifted up from the rooms below. Lestrade blinked.

"Damn. What woman was that?" he questioned to Mycroft.

"Most assuredly the Medical Examiner," Mycroft told him.

Lestrade sent him a look. He was about to ask how he'd arrived at such a quick and authoritative answer when he sighed and held his tongue. No matter his comments, he knew better than to expect a straight answer from the man beside him. Besides, the man's answer likely told him enough already.

"Might you like to help me the rest of the way?" Lestrade asked softly, flourishing his wings and presenting his back to Mycroft.

"It'd be an honour and a pleasure," the man said in a silken whisper.

Mycroft then placed a hand on each of his wings and smoothed his fingers over the impossibly soft feathers. With adroit dexterity, Mycroft proceeded to massage along Lestrade's long wing bones, applying acupressure to the muscles and tendons with his long fingered hands. Lestrade sighed in pleasure, and Mycroft soon established an intricate rhythm, the pads of his fingers working deeply into his flesh. Mycrofts actions bespoke of years of practiced talent as either an actually trained masseuse or some kind of musician. He very much doubted it was the former. So definitely a musician then. Lestrade tried to imagine what type of instrument Mycroft Holmes played. Sherlock played the violin so perhaps Mycroft played something in the string family as well. A cello perhaps? He let out a shaky exhalation.

"Mmm, maybe a piano," he murmured.

"Indeed so, but I haven't really played in years."

"You should," Lestrade said breathily. Mycroft let out an amused snort.

"Perhaps I'll play Rachmaninoff right here on your wings,"

Lestrade smiled languidly. "Oh, please do."

Mycroft flexed his wrists as if he were preparing to sit down at a piano.

"Let's see what I remember. Middle C sits against your spine." He pressed experimentally and Lestrade made low noise of encouragement. "Shall we try Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C sharp minor?"

"Whatever strikes your fancy," Lestrade told him. Though his eyes were closed, he could tell the man's inscrutable smirk was back in place. Mycroft then proceeded to tap out a new rhythm pressing along the flesh of his wings as if it was indeed a kind of magical keyboard.

"Your feathers can even stand in as keys," the ginger-haired man mused.

Lestrade let out a soft and very aroused laugh. "Good thing I've got feathers then, I always knew they'd come in handy one day."

Mycroft continued with his artful treatment of the massage, changing tempo and dynamics as time went on. Lestrade shivered beneath Mycroft's ministrations, his voice dropping into a deep baritone as he let out a moan that spoke volumes of his now hard and heavy need.

"_Mycroft," _he breathed. The slightly taller man behind him encircled his long arms around his waist and placed a torturously slow kiss to his neck. Mycroft then nipped his skin in feral passion and gave a teasing caress of Lestrade's now flushed and straining shaft with his right hand. Lestrade felt the dampened cloth surrounding the man's hot and insistently hard crotch slide against the curve of his buttocks.

"Who's fucking whom?" Lestrade wanted to know. He wiggled his bum teasingly, earning himself a loud and heady gasp from the indubitably indomitable British Government. This time it was Lestrade's turn to wear the smirk.

"_Well_," Mycroft intoned, forcing his voice to remain smooth by sheer force of will, "Seeing as how we are already in this position, perhaps we'll start out as we are and see where things take us."

"Sounds promising," Lestrade told him blissfully.

"Doesn't it just?" Mycroft whispered into his ear. Mycroft momentarily withdrew his arms from encircling Lestrade's hips and Lestrade passed him a slim plastic tube wordlessly as he listened to the sound of Mycroft's trousers unzipping. There was a sharp flicking sound as a plastic cap was opened and in an instant Mycroft was pressing himself gently between Lestrade's legs. The winged DI spread his stance obligingly, bracing his forearms against the wall. With one arm snaked around Lestrade's chest, hand splayed against his right pectoral muscle Mycroft positioned himself briefly.

"Are you ready, my dear Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, pinching Lestrade's nipple harshly between his fingers.

"_Mycroft, please,"_ he begged, a racking shudder of anticipation rocketing down Lestrade's spine.

Suddenly, with one exquisite snapping thrust of his hips, Mycroft was buried deep inside of him. His breath hitched and for a moment he feared he might actually come before Mycroft had even begun. But oh the size of the man! His vision unfocussed and he leaned back against Mycroft's shaft taking him in as deeply as he could.

"As tempting as I'm sure it is, do be sure not to be too much of a tease. We both want this to last for a reasonable amount of time," Mycroft rumbled in lust deepened tones against the nape of his neck.

"Alright," Lestrade told him. "Just remember, I'm not a fragile statue. I won't break."

"Duly noted," Mycroft replied, covering Lestrade's hand with his against the wall. And then Lestrade's world began to shatter into tiny sharpened spikes of scorching pleasure as Mycroft began to ride him.

And even if Lestrade lived for the next million years he knew in that instant in time that he would never _ever _feel more alive than he did now.

Mycroft reached between them and made a fist around Lestrade's proudly standing erection. The Detective Inspector cried out in unbridled physical ecstasy

as Mycroft expertly began to pump him in time with his quickly intensifying thrusts. He ran the pad of his thumb over the leaking head of Lestrade's shaft, growling shamelessly in satisfaction when Lestrade let out a breathy whimper.

"Ohh, Mycroft, PLEASE!"

His words were met with a supercilious snort. The smirk was back in spades.

"Is this what you want?" Mycroft asked in a lordly timbre, tightening his hand against his steely length and angling his hips just so, so that his next plunging thrust stabbed his cockhead against Lestrade's prostate.

A wantonly desperate shout tore from Lestrade's lips and his erection jerked in Mycroft's hand. Mycroft drew his hips back and repeated the motion, the long length of his manhood driving sharply against the precise center of Lestrade's erogenous zone.

"Better?" Mycroft inquired imperiously.

"_Please_," Lestrade begged, his voice quavering, "I'm ready. _Give me all you've got."_

"An angel asks and a man complies," Mycroft said silkily.

He then obliged the Detective Inspector, upping the ante and pouring every ounce of his strength into shattering Lestrade's tenuous hold on reality. The men's movements quickly moved out of the realm of "playful" sex. In mere minutes they crossed the threshold that took them into the harsh and guttural domain of raw animalistic fucking.

One thing was certain though. When it was all said and done and they both stood panting, leaning weakened limbs against the wall for support, Lestrade knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he no longer had a pheromone problem.


End file.
